Moments that Make Up A Lifetime
by StarKatt427
Summary: From birth, their lives are entwined, and throughout the years they walk this earth, they are each other's one constant.
1. Birth

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Boondock Saints, nor its sequel. I wouldn't mind owning the MacManus brothers though.**

**A/N: Long time no see! It hasn't honestly been that long since I put a story up here, but it sure feels like I've been gone for ages since college started. Which I am not feeling; I'm stuck as a dorm student, and though I have a laptop, there's something about sitting at an actual computer that gets my creativity going, so I really miss my house for this reason. Anyway, I've been busy working with some new ideas and trying to complete the final chapter of another story for about a month now, but I knew I wouldn't have it finished by Halloween, and since I really like posting on holidays, the first chapter of a new Boondock Saints story will have to do! I've had this written since the end of July/beginning of August, and the idea came to me out of no where one night, so I sat down and wrote a quick draft that consisted of most of the lines in this final version. **

**This series will be made up of short one-shots that, as the title implies, revolve around specific moments in the MacManus brothers' life, from birth to possibly death. The updates will most likely be sporadic, but I _will_ complete it, and I'm hoping for at least twenty chapters all together!  
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**StarKatt427**

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When they are newborns, tiny and fresh and blue tinted, they are frightened, only just ripped from their solitary world of warmth and safety, a quiet place of flowing blood and muted sounds, all they've known since thought first became possible. It is replaced by a shocking cold, their lungs bursting open to breathe in alien air, the comforting darkness of their existence dissolved by flashes and blotches of bright light that hurt their new eyes.

The first born rages, screams his anguish and heartbreak as he's taken away from the heated life and brought into a world of sudden chaos, rubbed roughly by foreign objects that make his chilled skin burn and tingle, every sensation magnified. He wails for the safety that he's been robbed of, for the voice that's often spoken to him, husky and deep and oh so comforting, but more than anything, for the one he's left behind, the one he was stolen from; his has been a constant presence, a warmth that the older brother cannot understand being without now, but he cries for him all the same, unable to comprehend the loss he feels but knowing it's there.

When his brother is born exactly two minutes, twelve seconds later, and the first born hears him snort on air, exhale a terrified wail, his own crying intensifies, knowing his companion is so close yet not near enough.

The younger of the two, an ounce smaller than his brother, enters the world gasping, then crying, terrified and unsure and utterly lost, and there's nothing else for him to do but howl for help. He had felt his brother slip away from his clutching hands, had felt the void left behind, the space he had occupied for the many months they grew together, and now that he is in this strange world, surrounded by harsh voices and loud machines beeping and things touching him that shouldn't be, the second born screams for him.

When he hears him crying back, calling to him, it only makes his wailing rise in ferocity.

It's only when they are cleaned of bodily fluids and placed side-by-side, their bare skin exposed to the cool air but warming to a natural rosy pink, that the screaming comes to an end. The younger one hiccups, unsure how to breathe in correctly yet, while his brother lets out a whine as their skin comes in contact, deliciously familiar. Though their arms lack motor control, their flailing hands snatch at one another, and only after they have their fingers entwined do they quiet, bodies pressed snugly together and no longer afraid.

Seeing isn't required, just feeling, sensing, because it is all these boys have ever known, and for the first time in this new, terrifying world, they feel utterly safe.


	2. Year the Second

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Boondock Saints, nor its sequel. I wouldn't mind owning the MacManus brothers though.**

**A/N: When I got the idea for this chapter, I knew it was exactly what I'd been waiting for to continue onward with this story. I mean, toddler-age Connor and Murphy? And their mother? Yeah, it really appealed to me, especially since I've never written anything quite like this before.  
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**I know Annabelle isn't exactly depicted as the motherly type, but I really wanted to capture a maternal version of her younger self that still possessed some of the fire we see in the deleted scene for the first movie. That's why I wrote this from her point-of-view, because I felt like her description of the boys at this age would be better than one I could do for them.**

**Reviews are welcome, and I hope you like it! Next up (most likely) is age 5!**

**StarKatt427**

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When they are two, having just gained steady traction as they toddle around after their mother's rustling skirts, they are a mess, leaving chaos in their wake and testing her patience on a day-to-day basis. She cannot blame them entirely, though; her boys, unfortunately, seem to have gained her disposition rather than their father's more tolerant nature, possessing tempers as fiery as their mother's red hair and the same powerful lungs that fuel the anathemas she screams to the high heavens and the wails they let forth when enraged. And while they are very much like her, in them, she sees even more of their father: he is in the stubborn set to Connor's jaw and the narrowed glare little Murphy will sometimes shoot her when she chastises him, the charming grins they flash her way that almost instantly sooth any irritation. Regrettably, like her Noah, they have quite a knack for finding mischief, little imps that seem to take pleasure in tormenting her, the maniac giggles that echo throughout the house the only giveaway as to their location when they're hiding from her wrath.

Some days are more difficult than others; not necessarily because of her boys, but because she is a single parent, is the sole provider for her children. Sure, there are neighbors, and her relatives are oft to stop by and help out, though not as frequently as when the twins were still babies. But she does her best not to complain, only in times of extreme weakness or when there is whisky scorching her tongue, addling her brain, and she curses that man for leaving her behind to raise not one, but two children.

Annabelle doesn't hate her husband; never could. After all, she married him, even if she does call him bastard when the strain becomes too much and she remembers that he is not there and hasn't been since before Murphy and Connor were born. Because Noah isn't there to bring them up right, to teach them the ways of the world as only a man can and direct them down the right path, it has been left up to her to make them into strong, capable lads, to lead them to God and remind them never to forget themselves, a task she is devoted to accomplishing and one that weighs heavily on her shoulders. But she loves him still, and when she sees her boys' blue eyes and feels the sticky pressure of sloppy kisses against her cheek, she loves him all the more, for without him, she wouldn't have her children.

They are so similar, but as they grow, they are becoming distinctly different people. Her Connor is both the older and louder of the two, the one who laughs more, but it is Murphy's hoarse voice that carries across their small home; Connor who seems to be the natural leader of the pair but who will nevertheless follow diligently after his twin, Murphy the sneakier of the two but also the one more likely to search her out to clutch at her leg. Their features have changed with age so that while they are still obviously brothers, they are less likely to be noticed as twins: Connor's hair is as fair as it was the day he was born, whereas Murphy's has darkened, her younger boy's face a little leaner that his counterpart's and even now one pound behind in weight.

Yes, they can be little devils when they want to be. And yet they have their moments, Annabelle muses, when they aren't snarling over toys or wrestling each other into the ground, a maelstrom of flailing limbs and snapping teeth and screeching voices and fingers tugging violently at hair. Murphy will sometimes return from the yard with a handful of flowers, theirs roots still attached and his little fingers grimy with dirt, mouth a wide grin that captures her heart as she graciously accepts his gift. Connor, after sucking down a bottle of warm milk, will burrow his face into her neck and say he loves her just before falling asleep, and her affection will get the best of her as she clutches her dozing babe closer.

It is the mornings that are her favorite, though, when she quietly enters their nursery and simply gazes at them for a few moments where they both lay in one of the two cribs, despite her best attempts to keep them in their own beds. Most nights as of late, one will wake, or both will, and they will squirm and climb about until they are in the same bed, wrapped around each other like wee angels, symbolic of their time shared in the womb. Sometimes, when she comes to wake them, Connor will have a leg thrown over his twin's hip, or Murphy's arm will pin his brother down; other times, they are on opposite sides of the mattress, but even then, they are touching, the tips of their fingers brushing in sleep.

And when they wake, blue eyes bleary behind their rubbing little fists and hair sticking up in the back, they will look at one another first, a look she cannot understand (for she is not a twin), as if to assure themselves that the other is accounted for. Then she will catch their attention where she stands over them, watching the whole occurrence fondly, and their eyes will alight with love as they smile sleepily at her.

It's when Annabelle has one on each hip, Murphy's fingers catching in her hair and Connor's head against her shoulder, that the screaming and fighting and frustration and stress become worth the wrinkles and gray hairs she knows will soon be cropping up. It makes every hardship meaningful, and as she kisses each atop the head, she loves her boys more fiercely than she ever has or will anything.


End file.
